


Go Big or Go Home

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Humor, M/M, Seduction, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-04
Updated: 2008-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Slytherin requires only the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Big or Go Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Svartalfur](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Svartalfur).



> Written for the 2008 run of HP Springsmut on IJ/LJ.

'Go big or go home.'

It was a singularly Muggle expression—an _American_ expression—and yet in many ways it perfectly encapsulated Severus Snape's view on life. If he were the sort of man to commission his own signet ring or a tasteful mantelpiece plaque, he might even have considered it a personal motto: "Ite Magno aut Ite Domum" or some such nonsense. At any rate, Muggle or not, it was also an inarguably Slytherin sentiment. Even the youngest first year under the green and silver knew that modest ambitions brought neither satisfaction nor reward, and that the only goal worth pursuing was no less than everything.

Nonetheless, Severus was not inclined to share with any former housemate, and especially not any current student, exactly where he had first encountered the expression. The source, purchased in 1979 and still holding residence in a bespelled safe in his bedroom, was a pictorial printed in a charming Muggle publication called _Hung and Hairy_, one of a handful of paper-wrapped periodicals he bought on twice-yearly expeditions to a certain shop in Muggle London.

It wasn't that he was alone in his inclinations, broadly speaking. It was the provincial wizard indeed who didn't have at least an aesthetic continental appreciation for both sexes. Severus, however, did not subscribe to the Greco-Roman ideal of willowy youths who bent over for powerful men and pretended not to like it. To his mind, if one were to appreciate women, one would want the most...

...well, he tried very hard not to think about women, in general or the specific, and a suitable panacea for that was thinking about men. Therefore, he'd had cause to muse on more than one occasion that it hardly seemed worth lusting after the male sex at all if the object of one's lust could pass for a woman. He had little tolerance for pretty boys, never having been one himself. If one were going to admire a man, one should admire the masculine.

The magazines had further refined his tastes. Sturdy working class men, and Canadian lumberjacks in their flannel, and American motorcycle policemen in their leather. Big men with wide shoulders and broad, furry chests. Men with large, callused hands and coarse accents and educations rooted in experience rather than the academic. And, speaking of rooted, his type of man had to be in possession of an endowment that would make a virgin go cross-eyed.

Which he was. A virgin, that is. At least when it came to men, hirsute and well-endowed or otherwise. This was not something that particularly vexed him, as he was quite busy, a man of position, and there was little time or reputation to spare frequenting the sort of establishments where his inclination might be met. Besides, in the five years since he had left school, he had developed a nasty habit of celibacy and had cultivated his fantasies to such particulars that it would take a larger-than-life figure to fill them.

Later, he would reflect that perhaps the vice really did make you go blind, because it took him quite a while to realise that such a candidate had been all but under his nose the entire time.

* * *

It was a warm day in late spring when he happened upon the idea of bedding Rubeus Hagrid.

June was a kind month. The worst of the rains had passed, and the softer weather had settled in. The castle was a madhouse, but it was infected with a madness time had made him immune to. Fifth and seventh years went to ground for panicked cram sessions before their examinations, and those in between went dizzy on springtime and hormones. Not his concern, not his problem. June meant an end in sight, and even he was hard-pressed not to have a spring in his step as he went out on a Saturday afternoon in search of this year's patch of wild hellebore.

Hogsmeade weekends were as much the highlight of his year as they were the students'. The grounds were deserted, so quiet he could hear the rustle of the dark forest and the birdsong in the hills and the lazy grind of his own thoughts. He found a scattering of the little white flowers on the north edge of the grounds and cut enough to fill his sample case. Then he eyed a clump of gurdyroot further in the shade and considered pulling the whole lot up and having Hagrid dry them for him.

Well, no time like the present. He put on his gloves and uprooted as much as he could possibly carry, and he carted it off to the hut. He came up by the back and looked in the window to see if Hagrid was in, ready to leave the pile on the doorstep with a note if that cur of his was standing guard. His worry proved unfounded, however, as he immediately caught sight of an unmistakable mountainous outline, and he was just about to knock at the window to have Hagrid get the door when an oddly familiar motion made him pause.

He stared. Hagrid sat at the edge of his monstrous bed, his arm moving swiftly back and forth. Severus's gaze followed to his hand. Big fist clenched tight, and the coarsely red head of a positively enormous cock appearing and disappearing between strokes.

His lips parted. Bloody hell.

Something hot twisted deep in his stomach, and he carefully set down the bundle of gurdyroot before he could drop it. He suffered a moment's indecision. Then his curiosity got the better of him, and he drew his wand, cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, and leaned in closer for a better look. His breath nearly fogged up the window as it quickened. Hagrid had his eyes shut, and his brow was creased slightly in concentration. His shirt was untucked and his placket unbuttoned—no drawers, colour him surprised—and if Severus stood on his tiptoes, he could glimpse the thatch of dark hair and the thick, veiny root of Hagrid's cock.

He made a quick calculation: the width of Hagrid's hand plus another inch to spare, and of pleasantly fitting girth besides. The sum made his eyes widen and then narrow. Of course Hagrid's supposed endowment was a popular topic of conversation among the boys of Hogwarts, and likely had been since the gamekeeper was himself a student here. Certainly, when Severus had been at that age of uncertain growth, more than one housemate would launch speculation and he, taking joy in ruining the fun of others even then, had pointed out that if six inches was the average as common knowledge held it, and Hagrid was half again the size of most men, then he was more likely to be wielding a relatively modest nine inches than a Yule log down his trousers.

Now, however, he realised he had overlooked two crucial points: firstly, Hagrid was _not_ modestly proportioned, and secondly, a cock anywhere over nine inches was much, much larger in person than in the abstract, especially when one was more accustomed to measuring wands.

He licked his lips, and his hand slipped into his robes to address a most pressing matter. A quick glance about reassured him that he was unseen, and the caress of the open air against him added a wicked thrill to the proceedings. He found himself mimicking Hagrid's strokes as he watched him, finding no difficulty in catching up. Quick and hard, interspersed now and then with slow and long and twisting. For a moment he imagined he was touching it, hot and thick and pulsing. Thick as a staff...God, thick as a riding-broom handle.

His backside tightened, and he braced a hand against the wall and lashed himself on in earnest, his pleasure ratcheting up with every second the show went on. Then he heard it: a rough, rumbling moan. His back arched, and his free hand scrabbled to grip the windowsill as he helplessly came, adding a wet mess to the weathered wood. The pleasure of it nearly shocked him, and he was left panting, still glued to the scene inside. Hagrid had _stamina_: who would have thought it?

He watched in lingering fascination until the end of it, watching Hagrid's strokes grow quicker and quicker, the bed giving out an almighty creak. To his great disappointment, Hagrid produced a handkerchief right before the climax, and he was denied the view he now found himself craving. He remained still as Hagrid came down with great huffing and puffing, and then he righted his robes and assessed the situation.

That was quite possibly the hardest he'd ever spent since first discovering that his cock was good for something other than pissing. Still, he found himself...dissatisfied. He'd wanted to see the whole thing. Moreover, he very much wanted to _feel_ the whole thing. He did not handle dissatisfaction particularly well. Of a sudden, he felt like the hero of one of those nauseatingly sentimental novels in which the object of one's affection is glimpsed and, in a case of love at first sight, suddenly no one else will ever do.

Of course, in this case it was only a certain part he had fallen in love with—he could take or leave the rest—which simplified things. It was by far the most impressive cock he had ever laid eyes on, and he would have it or he would have nothing. He left the gurdyroot by the door with a note after all and hastened back to the castle to plan his strategy.

* * *

It was all in the approach. He gave the matter serious consideration and decided that it just might be viable. He had been rather shocked upon becoming a member of faculty to realise exactly how much trysting was going on in private rooms under the students' noses. Hagrid was, to all rumour, unattached but not entirely uninterested. More importantly, Hagrid actually seemed to _like_ him and was one of the few to accord him the respect due his station despite his having been a student only five years before.

There was the matter of discretion, of course. Hagrid had an appropriately big mouth to go with the rest of him. In his own indirect experience, however, little persuaded a man to keep a secret than the promise of sex. Or more sex, as the case may be. So, he supposed, the prospect of losing face was weighted more heavily towards after the act than before and was possibly contingent on the proper application of bribery. It was an acceptable risk.

His magazines were of little help. He knew literary license when he saw it—even Muggles couldn't have discotheques full of men, frequented for the sole purpose of shagging in the bathrooms—and more creative approaches required arrangements of circumstance beyond his power. He couldn't see himself conjuring any storms or fires or life-or-death situations over the weekend. At the other end of the spectrum, he supposed even Hagrid wouldn't fall for it if he simply cut a hole in the wall of the hut and mounted a sign reading: "Insert prick to make Severus Snape's dreams come true."

That left one recourse, the standby of desperate young men everywhere.

Alcohol.

Which was how, one awkward invitation over dinner in the Great Hall later, he found himself preparing for a night in with Hagrid. He set out Flitwick's best set of crystal tumblers and the promised bottle of Lowland single malt, and he enlarged his bed to half again its normal size. Then, with consideration, he enlarged and reinforced the couch in case they didn't make it as far as the bedroom. A pot of lubricant was secreted in the bedside drawer, and a second on the end table, disguised as a decorative brazier. Then he retreated to the bathroom for a half hour and made himself as presentable as he was going to get.

Hagrid arrived at eight o'clock on the button, a gentle knock that rattled the door heralding his arrival. Severus graciously admitted him, the lights low and a fire crackling in the grate.

"Thank yeh fer invitin' me, Professor—don' think I've ever seen yer rooms before." He looked about with what seemed to be polite interest, and then his gaze fell on the large bottle of scotch. "Now tha's the stuff!"

Severus smiled tightly. "Quite. Do have a seat, won't you?"

Hagrid sat down on the couch, the only seat large enough to hold him, and Severus joined him in the scant space that was left over. He took out a pair of tumblers and opened the bottle, taking an appreciative sniff. The glasses were cunningly cut, reflecting hazy amber to the top with the smallest splash. He filled the larger of the two to the top and then tipped a tot into his own.

He took a sip and licked his lips in satisfaction.

The evening progressed in what might have been a comfortable manner if Severus weren't fighting off an erection for two solid hours. He played the attentive host and refilled Hagrid's glass to the brim each time it emptied, and he modestly poured his own, listening to some prattle about the thestrals, and the weather, and the mating habits of bundimuns. He himself, when prodded, spoke of his classes, and the book he was reading—which was met with keen interest and utter incomprehension at once—and his choices for next year's prefects. And, when he judged from the flush on Hagrid's already ruddy face that the man had drunk enough to be amenable but not useless, he set down his glass and laid a hand on a tree trunk of a thigh.

Hagrid shifted, but it didn't seem to be an uncomfortable shift. Instead, his legs parted and his voice quavered minutely before picking up again. "...and the centaurs musta seen the storm comin', because they..."

Severus tuned out, distracted by the warmth against his palm. His hand slid higher, and he could faintly hear the rub of wool against a hairy leg. He paused just as he reached the crease of thigh and trunk, and then he felt it. A faint twitch. He stroked ever so slightly back and forth and watched with hungry fascination as the pleasant bulge began to grow.

Hagrid's voice abruptly went higher than he would have believed it could go, and the man leapt to his feet with such force that the rest of the furniture gave a hop. "Bedtime, Professor!"

He looked up and wetted his lips. "A fine suggestion, Hagrid. Care to join me?"

Things seemed hopeful as Hagrid hesitated, standing unsteadily with a brightness in his eyes and a tent in his trousers. His mouth opened once, twice, and then shut. He shook his head decidedly. "Yeh're drunk."

Severus forgot to purr seductively and let out an indignant squawk. "I am not!"

Appearing reluctant, Hagrid nodded. "Keeping up with me all night, wouldn' be right. Come on, now, off ter bed with yeh."

Shocked, Severus found himself manhandled to his feet and marched off to the bedroom. "Hagrid, I am _not_ drunk." There was no arguing with Gryffindor gallantry, however, or with ten feet of stubbornness. He was removed from his robes in the least exciting way possible and tucked firmly into bed.

Hagrid loomed over him, looking almost shy. "Thank yeh fer havin' me over, Professor. I had a real nice time." Then, with an infuriating pat to Severus's head, he let himself out.

Cursing, Severus fought his way out from the binding covers. He glared at the shut door and then retrieved a magazine, some lubricant, and a trusty carving, and took matters capably into his own hands before settling in and contemplating his next step.

* * *

Plan B was a Sunday picnic. That alone spoke to the desperation that had seized him. He showed up on Hagrid's doorstep early the next afternoon with a basket from the kitchens and with a strained smile invited him to take a walk.

Hagrid grinned bashfully, which seemed promising. "Tha' sounds lovely."

Even more promisingly, he did not bring the dog.

They set out north past the Quidditch pitch, to the edge of the grounds, and settled in the lee of a hill out of the wind. It was actually a rather pleasant day to be out in, warm and cloudless and smelling of the heather. He unpacked whatever the house-elves had put together, which turned out to be two joints of cold mutton, some bread and cheese, and to his surprise a bit of beer. He had packed his own supplies in the pocket of his robe. Outdoor tumbles were quite obviously not what they were made out to be, but he was willing to compromise if circumstances didn't allow a dash back to Hagrid's hut. The bare ground was probably more hygienic anyhow.

Conversation was sparser this time. They sat in silence, not uncomfortably, and when the food was all gone, Severus gathered his nerve and once again put his hand on Hagrid's leg. This time he wasn't rebuffed, and the whole of the sun was blocked out as Hagrid curled carefully over him and kissed him. His lips parted to a pleasant shiver. The rough brush of a beard, hot breath against his skin, and then the tip of a very large tongue pressing almost delicately past his lips.

He nearly smirked in triumph.

As he warmed to the kiss with a soft hum, his hand crept up Hagrid's thigh towards his prize. His palm pressed over the placket of his trousers, kneading. Hagrid's breath caught, and he moaned so low that Severus felt more than heard it. The next kiss came harder, urgent enough that it might have pushed him flat on his back if a broad hand hadn't steadied him between the shoulders.

Severus's hand gave a squeeze and then inched up towards Hagrid's belt, intent on slipping the buckle loose. Hagrid grasped his wrist, however, and drew his hand away—just as Severus had leaned forward. He overbalanced, fell forward, and smashed his face into a rather large rock. The cursing that ensued sent birds scattering for miles.

Two short minutes later, his nosebleed had stopped, and he was more concerned with dissuading Hagrid from carrying him all the way back to the castle. "Hagrid, I mean it—put me down this instant!"

"Don't yeh worry, Professor, I'll get you ter Madam Pomfrey's right quick!"

Severus closed his eyes wearily as he was borne along at a bumpy trot in Hagrid's arms and wondered what he had ever done to deserve this. The list was too long to contemplate.

* * *

He would have had to be stupid, or mad, to even consider a third attempt. However, spring madness might have been catching after all, because his small successes haunted him long into the week. Each night in bed, every morning in the shower, his imagination slipped irresistibly back to Hagrid's rough wool trousers and the treasure within. He needed to touch it, wondering if he could even get his hand around it. Wanted to taste it, wanted to suck it, wanted his mouth overflowing with it. Having it inside him, slick, every last inch of it, the thought was...exhilarating.

Still, his failures niggled at him. He had lost quite enough face already for what was, at the root of it, a frivolous pursuit. In a way, that rankled the worst. Hagrid—or at least a certain portion of his anatomy—was the greatest there was of what he desired. At the same time, how bloody hard was it supposed to be to entreat a half-simple half-Giant into sodomy? If he didn't see this through, he would never live it down, if only in his own company.

By chance, the decision was taken out of his hands. The next Friday, the mountain came to him, and he found Hagrid waiting outside of the Potions laboratory as his last class let out. Severus waited until the students had dispersed and eyed him archly. "May I help you with something, Hagrid?"

Hagrid shuffled his feet and offered a smile. "Yer nose looks better."

Severus frowned, taking it at first as some sort of veiled insult, and then caught his meaning. "Ah, yes. It was a simple healing."

"Looked worse'n it was, I suppose."

"Mm." He eyed Hagrid with deliberate blandness. "Now, may I help you with something?"

Hagrid shuffled again. It was an unnerving sight, like getting off a lift and feeling like the ground was still shifting beneath you. "Do yeh want dinner?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ter eat. With me. Got a rabbit stew on."

Severus abruptly began to feel as if he had sustained another head injury. "You want me to join you for dinner?"

Hagrid beamed broadly, looking relieved. "Tha's the ticket."

"I suppose. Yes." Failure had made him wary, but it was a foolish man who ignored the knock of opportunity at the door.

If it was possible, Hagrid lit up even brighter. "Shouldn' be on the plate later'n six."

Six, it was. Severus once again went through the ridiculous grooming habits required for a potential tryst, stole a bottle of wine—which he supposed Hagrid would serve in mugs—from the headmaster's wine cellar, and showed up on Hagrid's doorstep just as the dinner hour rang.

Hagrid greeted him cheerfully and let him in. It looked like the menagerie was banished to the stables for the evening, which suited him fine, though there was a fair amount of fur and feathers left behind. He carefully dusted off a seat and sat down at the table, uncorking the wine. Predictably, Hagrid set out two pewter cups before ladling out a generous portion of stew.

Not so predictably, the stew was actually rather good. It might have still been worth his while coming out here, he reflected, even if five minutes after they'd finished, Hagrid hadn't stood up, hauled him right off his feet, and backed him up against the nearest wall to kiss him senseless.

Severus blinked and, with a flush of embarrassment, very nearly climbed him.

This time Hagrid was hardly so delicate, and he could do little but moan a query as his lips were urged open and a beam dug into his back. He grasped Hagrid's shirt and yanked it out from his waistband, managing to gasp between hard kisses: "If you stop this time, I am going to murder you."

A low chuckle was his only reply, along with more kisses until Severus wriggled out of his grasp and dropped to his feet. He nearly dropped down further before he made a mental sum of the height difference and gave Hagrid a hard shove towards the bed instead. Hagrid reversed obligingly, kicking off his boots and landing on his back, pulling Severus atop him.

Severus went straight for his buckle, pulling the belt off with a whip-crack and tossing it aside. He greedily attacked the buttons next, and then...

Oh.

Not all the way hard yet, but halfway there, and he got to feel it stiffen up as he took it in his hand, stroking it experimentally. Hagrid gave an encouraging grunt, pushing himself up on his elbows to watch. Severus was just as inclined to a viewing himself, staring in fascination as it filled to full length, thickening up by the second. He licked his lips as it flushed a deep red at the tip, and then he stole a taste.

Thick and hot, it was a stretch just to get his lips around it. His own cock was rising urgently without a hand on it, but it would have to wait, both hands wrapping around Hagrid, one above the other as he gave a hard suck. It drew a gasp out of Hagrid as he took as much as he could: "Don'—don' have ter be gentle."

Severus was not averse to constructive criticism. Giants were made of hardier stuff, little wonder if he liked rougher handling. His hands gave a twist in opposite directions, and he let his teeth gently scrape, earning a great moan and a hand rubbing his back. He found himself nearly drooling over it, everything he'd ever dreamed, starving for just another inch. The first salty, leaking drops filled his mouth, and he imagined the rest of it, a wicked mouthful of come that would slip past his lips, dripping all over him.

Then Hagrid's hand slipped down further, cupping his arse roughly through his robes, trying to get a feel underneath, and using his mouth simply wasn't good enough anymore. He pulled off with a wet smack and soothed the disappointed groan by getting the jar of lubricant out of his pocket. A handful later, he was anointing the wonderful thing, making every inch slick as Hagrid pulled him out of his clothes. His pulse quickened as he considered what was to come.

Hagrid picked up the jar, fumbling with the lid. "Fiddly thing..."

A moment later, Severus was bracing himself as a slippery, blunt finger pressed at him, rubbing in circles until he very nearly growled. "On with it!"

Slow and steady seemed to be the order of the day, however, as Hagrid held him down firmly and teased him achingly open. He might have been a novice at this, but Hagrid obviously wasn't. One enormously thick finger, then a second, making him dizzy and breathless and so hard he feared it might break off. "If you don't fuck me this instant, Hagrid..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeh'll murder me." Hagrid's voice was just as tight as he yanked him up astride his lap, and for a moment Severus swore he wouldn't be flexible enough to pull it off, but then he felt the first blunt press against him.

He let his weight shift down slowly....

_Oh._

His eyes nearly crossed as he was opened up—a heart-stopping moment in which he nearly changed his mind—and then something in him went shuddery and soft, and he sank down an inch. Another. So full. Wonderful. Perfect. His legs trembled, but Hagrid quickly caught him by the hips and moved him. Simply rocking at first, the thick ridge of foreskin pressing just right inside. Then more, more as he demanded it, his head falling forward and his eyes squeezing shut and his breath coming hard.

The pleasure built up to terrible tension inside him as they quickened from a walk to a trot, then a rollicking canter that brought wave after wave of pleasure crashing over him. He came so hard that he spattered his own chest, the onslaught continuing on long after he'd softened, opened up completely and dying of it. Hagrid's hands were burning on him, his words indecipherable but his bellow unmistakable.

He swooned.

* * *

Long afterwards, he came awake a perfect mess. He ached all over, wet and slick between his thighs. He suspected he wouldn't be able to walk a straight line for a week, and he hummed in pleasure.

The lumpy mattress beneath him hummed back, and he opened one eye to find Hagrid looking at him.

"Good fer you?" Hagrid inquired.

"Took you long enough to catch on."

That prompted a moment's silence to which he had learned to attribute a puzzled quality with Hagrid. "Well, couldn' do it then, now could I?"

Severus, annoyed, lifted his head. "Why not?"

Hagrid smiled and gave him a pat. "Had to wait fer the third date. S'rude, otherwise. 'If somethin's worth doin' then it's worth doin' right'—that's wha' my old dad used to say. Words ter live by."

Severus closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Only small-minded men live by adages, Hagrid."

He paused.

"And next weekend you're coming to my rooms—this place is filthy."


End file.
